So, I’ve been reading It’s Not You by Ramani Durvasula. It’s a book about healing from relationships with narcissistic people. It’s a very good book and I recommend it…if you, like me, are wanting to go down the rabbit hole of making sense of your life…processing shit and all that. As I’ve been reading, I keep thinking the name should be, “It’s not you…oh wait a minute, yes, it is.” The “you” being me. It makes me laugh, and cringe. The rabbit hole is not for the faint of heart.

One of the best things that I have learned from studying Buddhism is that I always need to look at myself first. Meaning that I cannot control anything but me, so I need to be aware of how I am interacting with myself, people around me, and the world…all the time. This completely changed my perspective, and it’s really fucking annoying. It’s so much easier and neater to blame someone else. I guess it’s the Buddhist equivalent of Jesus telling people not to worry about the speck in your neighbor’s eye when you have a log in your own. Get the log out and carry on. Leave your neighbor alone.

If you ever want to rid yourself of false beliefs about yourself, I can tell you a sure-fire way to crush all your illusions…move cross country to Florida with your parents and have them live with you. No more illusions about me. My wife and I were laughing last night about me telling her that I always thought that I was easy going, laid back, and that I just go with the flow. We were laughing because I am none of those things…not really at all…maybe if I tried hard…nope.  My wife is all those things plus a slow Texas drawl…just to hammer it home. You have probably guessed by now that I tend to talk fast. I know it’s a shocker. We are speech opposites. 

I always say that my English bulldog, Abby, is me as a dog. She can’t eat gluten either and she has joint problems like me. That’s just physical stuff. She has my attitude too. Abby wakes me up every morning between 7:15 and 7:45. She does this by coming to my side of the bed and talking to me. Her talking is a cross between a growl, a soft bark, whining, and any other sound she can come up with. And she does not stop until I do what she wants…scratch her ears. Then we get up and I take her out and then feed her. Now she does not eat when I feed her. She lays down for a while and then she comes and talks to me because she wants her medicine…meaning she wants the food I put the pills in. After her medicine she lays down and naps. About an hour later, the talking starts again. Now she wants some smoothie. I make them most days and she gets a little in her bowl. After her smoothie she sleeps. Around 3 she wants to go out again. Then she starts talking to me about her dinner. She eats at 5:00. She’s early and persistent. After dinner she wants her walk so she can go to bed. Abby cannot go for a walk until about 8 pm because it’s too hot for her. I spend 3 hours telling her it’s not time and that she must wait. Once her walk is complete Abby wants to go to bed. This is different than napping because she goes into the bedroom to sleep. The catch here is that she wants me to go to bed too. I actually say, out loud to her, “It’s too early and I’m not going to bed at 8 just because you want me to.” Eventually, she gives up and goes into bed…she’ll be back in an hour or so, to stare at me clearly annoyed and wondering if I’ll ever go to bed. 

This is our schedule every day…every damn day. Abby likes a routine. She likes things the same day after day. She wants consistency in her schedule. She doesn’t like surprises or big changes…or little changes for that matter. Abby is not easy going and laid back…me either. She does not go with the flow, unless the flow involves extra food. I’m not so flowy either. Abby is stubborn. Me too. I think I get that from her. My mom told me once that I was stubborn, and I responded, “What did you expect? I was born to stubborn and stubborner.” 

Moving my parents to Florida was an adventure for sure. I went to St. Louis two weeks before our actual move date to help them pack. Aside from packing, I was there to encourage my parents to downsize. They were going from a two-bedroom condo with just the two of them to a three-bedroom apartment where they only had the master bedroom. Aside from bedrooms, all the space was shared. Sharing was hard for them. Letting go was hard for them. After much arguing…well, they argued with me, I didn’t say much…they sold some of their furniture. 

They had so much stuff and very unrealistic expectations of what it was worth…maybe not unrealistic so much as sentimental. Their furniture was beautiful but not what people were buying in 2022. They wanted hundreds of dollars for each piece and that is not what people pay when they buy used furniture. I understand this was difficult for them. I had just done the same thing to move from Colorado. It was a lot of change. 

The day we moved in, after 3 days of travel, we were all tired and ready to be settled. I remember how this scene played out…. My dad was in his wheelchair in the middle of the family room and the movers were coming in with tons of boxes and furniture. The office was filled with boxes…stacked 3 or 4 high…and this was just their stuff. My stuff wouldn’t be here for a month. The family room was overflowing with furniture. There were two recliners, a full-size sofa, a huge coffee table, a hutch/desk with a chair, a buffet, two end tables, and a wooden chair. The movers could barely walk through to unload more boxes…everywhere. So many boxes.

I felt more and more overwhelmed as the stuff piled up. So, in my laid-back, go with the flow voice I announced, “We can’t keep all of this. It’s too much furniture. We have to get rid of some of it.” My father responded, angrily, “I’m not selling anymore of my god damned furniture! You gave enough of it away already. Nothing else is going!” To which I growled, “Then you’re gonna need a storage unit.” And with her own special flair for the dramatic, my mother said, “Go ahead and sell it! Sell it all! Tell the movers to put it back in the truck and take it to the dump.” Don’t you wish you had been there? I don’t…oh, but I was.

Eventually, we did laugh at this exchange, but it took a year for it to be funny. This story is important because it is the moment I began to realize that I had a distorted vision of myself. This idealized self was beginning to reveal itself to me, as false. To me it’s better to be easy going and laid back and because I value those qualities, I guess I decided I had them. No one wants to say, look at me, I’m a control freak and everything makes me nervous and anxious. Don’t you wanna be just like me? 

If you want to deal with yourself honestly, come to Florida. It’s where all the false shit gets stripped away. Maybe it’s the humidity. It’s a hurricane for your self-image. The problem was, if my false self wasn’t me, who is me? I feel like I should have been asking this question about 40 years ago…I probably did, and I just don’t remember. I think the question of who we are comes up throughout our lives. Mainly in times of transition…like moving…or losing a job, the end of a relationship, getting married, having a baby, having another baby, kids leaving home, retirement, becoming a grandparent, death, our own, our parents, spouse, child…you get the idea.

Transitions are hard. Although, in my mind, if you are laid back and easy going, then transitions are a piece of cake. You don’t worry or fret because you take it all in stride. If you go with the flow, you have a fluid and flexible understanding of yourself. Things change and you’re fine because you knew things would change. Because they always do. You aren’t derailed because it was expected. 

Change makes me anxious. I did not know I was an anxious person until recently. Until…you guessed it, Florida. Fucking Florida. My wife has asked me a couple times, when I may have seemed stressed or on edge, what I was anxious about. The first time I said I wasn’t anxious. I may have even said that I don’t have anxiety. Watch out for the lightening strike….

Anxiety feels bad to me. Not the actual anxiety, the label. In my mind, and speaking for me only, it means I’m weak. It is not okay for me to be weak. I can’t look or act weak. That would be bad. I must be strong…all the time. I don’t get taken care of; I take care of everyone else. I don’t need help; I do things on my own. I’m good in a crisis. I can handle an amazing amount of shit. People can count on me, and they know that.

Now that my anxiety has been labeled, I’m noticing it often…probably not as often as it happens but more than never, so there you go. I had been trying to put more words to this feeling. Explaining words, but I couldn’t find them. Until I reached a part in Stephanie Foo’s book, What My Bones Know, where she says that she’s always on edge…all the time. That’s what I feel. On edge. I’m on edge all the time. Because of that feeling, because I don’t like that feeling, I am always trying to anticipate any problem and solve it before it can rear its ugly head…before it’s a problem. For example, when I am checking out at a store, I have my wallet out and my debit card in my hand. I am ready and waiting. Why? Because I don’t want to make anyone wait for me or slow anyone down. I don’t want anyone mad at me. I’m on edge because of fear. Fear of anger, even from a stranger. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way. Maybe I’m afraid of taking up space in the world. Maybe I feel guilty that I take up space at all. I’m not sure. But that type of situation makes me anxious…puts me on edge.

I have been thinking that I should have named my blog, On the Edge, because that’s where I live. Or since I am trying to move, Off the Edge. I like to think that I’m packing to move off the edge. Permanently. But where does one go when they move off the edge? That’s the only home I’ve known. What do I bring besides my laid back, easy going self?

 Now you may be expecting me to wrap this up, all happy…at least semi-happy…with a neat little bow of acceptance and understanding. But I don’t have anything like that in my back pocket. In fact, I don’t even have back pockets. If you were raised in a home with a narcissistic parent or guardian, you are familiar with the feeling of being on edge. You might have lived in a state of chronic tension and anxiety. Waiting for the next explosion of anger or rage from the narcissistic parent…or both parents as they feed off each other’s explosive emotions. On the edge was where I heard threats of abandonment and verbally, and sometimes physically, violent fights. I spent much of my life walking on eggshells. I was trying my best not to piss anyone off…and always scared I would.  

My circumstances have changed. I am an adult now…mostly. I can care for and protect myself. I don’t need to be on edge now. But those fears still impact my reactions and my behavior. I still have anxiety…just ask Florida. I feel afraid of conflict. I hate fighting. I hate yelling. I hate screaming. I almost feel panicked. I am afraid for my physical safety and emotional safety in those situations…even if there is no actual threat to me.

Living with my parents opened my eyes to a lot of things. I was not aware that I’m always on edge. It helped me tremendously to read someone else’s description of their life and to realize she was describing me. I am learning to be aware of my body and what I am feeling. I can ask myself whether there is an actual threat to me in this moment. I can pay attention to my body, because my body feels the truth of the situation, regardless of what my mind is trying to sell me. I can ask myself, what is happening right now? What is triggering me? Is my anxiety reasonable or out of proportion to the situation? 

The singer, Harry Chapin, famous in the 70’s, until his death, at 38, in 1981. He had a song called Circle, and in it he talked about our lives being a circle and that the seasons keep coming around again and time passes. I think he was onto something there. I think our lives are circles in another way too. The issues we struggle with come around over and over too. I have worked through difficult and painful situations, only to have them come around again, and again. The thing is each time the pain comes around it’s different…because I’m different. I have a different perspective than the first or second or three hundredth time I’ve looked at a difficult or hurtful pattern. The problem is changed because I am changed.

There’s the hope I see. Life is circular so I have numerous opportunities to change patterns. To strengthen relationships or let them go if they are harmful to me physically, emotionally, or mentally. I can control me. I cannot control anyone else…and God knows I’ve tried. So, what does that mean for me? It means I need to focus on me…how am I acting or reacting to what is happening around me? How am I interacting with myself, with other people, with the world in general? What is my body telling me? What is my mind saying to make sense of the current circumstances? What is the story I’m telling myself and is it true? Is the story based on facts or on fears? 

I have the answers to all those questions inside of me…well, I’m 90% sure I do. I need focus on my own eye log and leave other people’s splinters alone. I need to be kind and compassionate with myself. To give myself the same grace that I am willing to offer to others. Love myself, even the parts of me that feel crazy sometimes. I deserve, for myself, the same love I would extend to another person. That love will lead me to greater understanding myself and others. I cannot love you, not really love you, unless I really love me first. Love is the answer. We can choose to allow love to guide us to our authentic and vulnerable true selves. We can risk opening and allowing. I can change. We can change. We have everything we need already. 

Love is the answer to all the questions. Love moves me off the edge…if I allow it. I can see everyone and everything through the lens of love if I choose to. I knew love was the answer…because in the end all that matters is how we love people, including ourselves…starting with ourselves.